Red Passion, or not
by ch19777
Summary: Focuses on Teresa Lisbon, her POV. "There are exactly three reasons why I'm in bed with Reggie right now. ... #3 Patrick Jane."


_**Disclaimer: **No, I still don't own The Mentalist or its characters._

_This is my second Mentalist fic and, like the first one it takes place in Teresa Lisbon's bed. And this time there's not even Patrick Jane in bed with her (yet), my apologies for that. If I ever write another story, I'll try to come up with a different scenery.  
_

* * *

9:57 PM.

Agent Reginald Wilkinson - "Reggie" to his friends - is trying really hard. He strokes, licks and moans, but so far he fails to prevent me from regretting that I invited him in after the dull date we had tonight.

I have to get up early tomorrow morning.

His tongue digs into my ear. It feels wet and warm, nothing more. He doesn't kiss my neck.

"Teresa....," he groans into my hair. At least he's not calling me 'Baby'.

He's attempting so much to please me as he kneads my breasts like cookie dough; it almost seems pathetic. Our interaction is nothing but a lie.

I need to be in the office at 6 AM.

Suggestively I shift my body, directing his hand further down my body. I spread my legs to rub against his hand and draw his mouth to my lips. Deep inside of me a faint desire awakens. Just as I start to enjoy his company, he deprives me of his hand and begins kissing my stomach. My frustration is lost upon him. Briefly his hand returns to where I want it to be, only to notice that I'm not ready yet. Too dry.

He rolls over to lay stretched out on his back and reaches for my hand to get served. His eyes are glassy, vacuous. Apart from his dick his body seems like dead. Panting he is lying there and stares into the darkness above our heads.

I'm feeling helpless and clumsy.

There are exactly three reasons why I'm in bed with "Reggie" right now:

#1 He is handsome in a subtle, yet very manly way. Physically he is my type.

#2 I hadn't had a date - and therefore sex - for several months. (Okay, make that _slightly_ over a year.)

#3 Patrick Jane.

If you'd ask me, I'd claim not to know which of those three reasons was the crucial one to make me accept Agent Wilkinson's invitation when he asked me out for dinner. Secretly, I am very well aware though, that this is mainly Jane's fault. If he hadn't teased me from the moment Wilkinsons was helping us out during an investigation, after both Cho and Rigsby had called in sick, I would be soundly asleep alone in my bed by now.

During the case it was almost impossible to have a normal conversation with Jane, even for his standards. He went on and on about Wilkinson having a thing for me. Of course Jane had been standing right beside me when Wilkinson indeed asked me out on his last day with our team. One glance at Jane's smug and irritating 'I told you so' smile and I _had_ to accept the invitation just to annoy him. Seeing his eternal smile falter, and in the end disappear, was satisfying.

Then I saw his facial expression change to something that I could only interpret as a mix of hurt and defeat and I would have liked to take my acceptance back. But Wilkinson was still standing there and I had to smile at him and ignore the nagging voice in the back of my mind, which questioned whether Jane was just a bad loser or if the look on his face was a direct reaction to my date with another man. The next time I saw Jane, he was his usual cheerful self again, although he avoided to ever mention Wilkinson again. So I decided to forget about Jane once and for all and to safely store away any feelings I might or might not have for him.

Seeing that I'm thinking of him while trying to spark up my love life with another man, I'd say this is really going well.

Okay, Teresa, focus.

Wilkinson buries one hand in my hair, presses my head to the pillow. I'm still not wet enough. He probably blames me, but he doesn't say anything. Resolutely his fingers begin to stimulate me.

I'm almost angry at my body for responding to his touch. He has beautiful hands though. They slowly spin over my skin, spread me. Slide one finger into me, two. Up and down again. I'm getting tight. I flow.

He parts my legs and places his body between them.

"Do you wanna be on top?"

I say 'no'. Seemingly thoughtful, he asks me if I'm sure. But I know that his secret desire is to see me moving on top of him. He has probably already labeled me as 'boring'. But still, I don't want that he sees my thighs while we're doing it.

So we have sex in the missionary position. After a few seconds he already looks like he's about to come. I feel like a piece of flesh.

I try to concentrate, rub my nipples against his hair. Entwine around him while he thrusts into me. I let my thoughts drift, away from him. Away from myself. I dive into the prurience, cling to it.

Another me, who sleeps with other men. Men who have time and give time. Men with golden curls and the most irritating smile.

As a familiar face appears in my mind's eyes, my body freezes.

Jane.

Thinking of Jane during sex.

At this point I realize and accept that there won't be another date or more sex with Wilkinson in my future.

Wilkinson is getting impatient, I can tell. Most likely he counts till one hundred to not come too early. Or he thinks of his incompetent landlord about whom he had complained endlessly during dinner.

The heat between my legs breaks away, reduces to mechanism. A pumping, thoughtless machine.

The alarm clock blinks red light over the sheets.

Wearily I tilt my head back and moan to finally end this farce.


End file.
